You May Drown
by love-is-my-language
Summary: Roger and Mark, childhood best friends, are reunited in high school under the most unlikely of circumstances. They're lonely and broken, but will each become his friend's savior? HighSchool, so a little AU. T for mature themes.


Roger Davis and I first met in kindergarten. With his scraggly, golden, gone-too-long-with-out-a-trim hair, disproportionately large blue eyes, and snarl he gave to anyone who ventured too near to him, he reminded me of a mischievous lion cub. Lions, at the time, were my favorite animal, a decision I had made after my first trip to the Central Park Zoo, so I liked Roger on sight. I walked up to him and declared "You're a lion!" to which he responded with a tremendous roar, and with that exchange we were instant friends. For kindergarten, first, and second grade, we were inseparable. Roger spent nearly every afternoon at my house eating peanut butter sandwiches and slamming out drum solos on pots and pans. When we went to the neighborhood playground, people often mistook us for brothers. I thought we would be friends forever. Unfortunately we were put in different classes in third grade, the time when they to segregate student based on skill, and Roger, who never did his homework or tried much in school, wasn't a part of my life for quite a while.

The very same neighborhood playground in which we played like brothers as children was the place I spoke to Roger for the first time since the summer after second grade. However in this instance, we weren't playing, it was 10th grade, and Roger was casually crushing a cigarette under the worn toe of his sneaker as one of his friends took me by the shoulders and shoved me to the ground. It was there that my first words to him since the second grade were "Roger, help!"

"Man, did you hear that?" My aggressor, a junior whose name I believed to be Jake, asked. "What's the kid going on about, Davis? He know you or something?"

Roger said nothing, and lit another cigarette with the easy flick of a match. He took a long drag, eyes staring blankly ahead of him as I tried to scramble off the ground. I had been out for a walk in the cool November dusk, and my feet had taken me to the playground without much of a thought, where I had unluckily encountered some of the roughest kids in school. Reflecting on this, I realized I probably should have planned a bit more, as the playground, though cheerful and innocent during the day, was a popular place for fights to occur after dark. I adjusted my striped scarf and turned to leave the three boys who were now distracted asking Roger how I knew him.

"Not so fast… Cohen, isn't it?" Jake growled, grabbing me by my scarf and slightly strangling me.

"Y-yes," I gasped and tried to loosen the cutting cloth.

"Well Cohen, you made a pretty strange decision coming here tonight." Jake spun me around to face him and the three looming figures in the background. "You see, most kids come here at night looking for some trouble. You looking for any trouble?"

"No, no, I'm not looking for trouble." I assured him as two of the figures advanced towards me. Roger remained in the same spot, a shadow lit only by the red end of a smoldering cigarette.

"Well Cohen, it might just be your lucky day," Jake informed me. I breathed a sigh of relief. They were going to let me go. "You might just find something you weren't even looking for."

That was not exactly what I wanted to hear.

"Hey man, why don't you let him go? He's not doing anything," Roger offered nonchalantly. "What's beating up some skinny little kid gonna prove anyway?"

"Shut up, Davis," Jake ordered. "Why don't you get your ass over here and act like you're a part of this? What are you doing, anyway?"

"Just having a smoke," Roger answered, taking a drag as if to prove his point. The next words were let out it a white puff, making Roger's already shadowy form look even more mysterious. "Just let Cohen go; we can find something better to do."

I doubted it, but a tiny part of me felt like Roger might actually be trying to get me out of this mess. But I knew he had no reason to; he didn't owe me anything and being friends as kids didn't mean a thing to guys like Roger.

"Hold his arms back, Greg," Jake demanded, and one of the two boys beside him, presumably Greg, dashed around and pinned my arms to my sides.

It was then that I became very frightened, a fright that coursed through my veins like ice, fright to the point of terror. Some basic, caveman instinct in me was shouting "You're about to get pounded! Run! Yell! Get away! Do something or you're dead!" and to my credit, I tried. I really did. I used all of my strength to try to squirm out of Greg's hands but it was useless. I was trapped, at the mercy of four boys who didn't seem to posses any.

"Jake…" Roger's voice, laced with warning, came from his same spot, and I could see the cigarette being crushed under his toe like the last one.

"Shut up, Davis," Jake dismissed him, and turned his attention to me, rolling up his sleeves with menace. I was so scared. I tried to think of heroic, brave last words but it was all I could do not to whimper.

Suddenly, a body came barreling towards me in the dark. I flinched away, but instead of hitting me, Greg was knocked to the ground and I was free. Nonetheless, the bit of my brain responsible for movement seemed to have shut off and I stood rooted to the spot, amazed at my good fortune. Before I could thank my liberator, he shouted "Goddamnit, Mark, run!"

It was then that I realized Roger Davis, who used to protect me from being picked on in kindergarten, had saved me once again. His cry was all I needed, and without thinking I took off towards the park entrance, running as I never had before. My gym coach would have been amazed that I had the capability to move so quickly. All it took was some life-threatening danger, really.

The sound of a scuffle erupted behind me and I could hear Roger let out a yelp. Obviously the group had turned on him once he'd let me go. Roger was now fighting three on one. Roger was now fighting three on one with the toughest boys in school. Roger wasn't going to come out of this one on top. I stopped running once outside the playground gates, weighing my options. I could go back and help my rescuer fight or I could leave him to fend for himself and run safely home.

I turned out of the park and sprinted back home, a decision I have never been proud of.

That night was not a restful one. Falling asleep was like a well choreographed but frantic dance – throw the blankets off, toss, turn, pull the blankets back on, flip onto my side, adjust my pillow, throw the blankets off – and all the while grotesque images of what harm may have befallen Roger chased one another through my mind. I was learning the true meaning of regret. I finally fell asleep a mere three hours before I had to wake for school.

Once at Scarsdale Public High School, I anxiously scanned the blue and grey entry hall for Roger. All of the students waited in this hall before the first bell, and if Roger had survived his encounter and would be at school today, I was certain to see him here. I watched the main clock over the sea of students as its long black hand crept steadily towards the twelve. Soon the bell would sound through the hall and I would be forced to go to class with the knowledge that my betrayal could have caused serious harm to Roger. All I wanted was to see him, to know that he was okay, and I would be able to make it through my seven-period day.

Ever since I was a child, I'd had a game that I played all to myself, a game I never mentioned to anyone, but cropped up around particularly stressful times. The Trading Game, I called it. In the Trading Game, I would take something I really wanted, such as to see Roger, and make mental trades of something in my life of equal or greater value to obtain it. The game never really worked, of course, but I liked it for two reasons – one – it made me feel as if I had some control over the situation and two – it was a way of determining just how badly I really wanted something. I played it something like this –

_I'd take a pop quiz in Trig if Roger could be okay._

_ I'd miss the bus and have to walk three miles home if Roger could be okay._

_ I'd get the flu this winter if Roger could be okay._

_ I'd take an hour of nagging from my mom if Roger could be okay._

Oddly, the game calmed me, and I was so enthralled in trading getting my books thrown in the gym shower (again) that I almost didn't notice when the object of my game slunk into the hall, trying to appear inconspicuous. His hair was too long, just as it had been the day we met, and was mussed as if he had just rolled out of bed. He sported blue jeans and a faded, worn black leather jacket, his book bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, but most noticeable, however, was the tremendous black bruise ringing his left eye.

Instead of heading to the back corner where Roger and his friends usually waited before school, hanging off the railings and shooting looks at those in the immediate vicinity, he stopped dead in the front of the entry hall, unsure of where to go. Certainly not to the gang that had given him that shiner the previous night, but Roger had no other group that would accept him. The school's "tough kids" kept entirely to themselves, and no one dared to speak to them outside of their own circle. A ripple of energy surged through the crowd of students – although they may not have been aware of it, the status quo had been upset. Roger Davis was left alone

For the second time in two days, my body seemed to move without thought and I traversed the mass of students, pushing and dodging, until I found myself beside Roger.

"Roger?" I began. He turned his head, looking me dead in the eyes. I was, unfortunately, at a complete loss for words. I didn't have anything planned and I rejected every phrase that crossed my mind as too sappy, too trite, too callous, or too bizarre. What do you say to someone who got beat up in your place? "Um, I just wanted to say thanks for helping me out last night. I mean, I really don't know what I would have done otherwise."

The sentences, both trite and sappy, hung in the air between us, unsure of where to land. Roger said nothing, seeming to look right through me.

"Are you okay?" I tried again. Roger let out a short, harsh, and unexpected snort.

"You mean besides my eye?" He asked ruefully. I stood still, looking foolish and unsure of how to respond. His voice softened. "Mark, really, I'm fine. I've seen worse."

The last sentence carried more meaning than I believe Roger intended. I wanted to ask him when he had seen worse, and what it could have been that made such a tremendous bruise seem insignificant enough to qualify as "fine".

Now that I had walked up to Roger and was engaging in actual conversation with him, I felt suddenly bold.

"What happened last night? I mean, after I," I paused, unsure of what to say. After I ran away? After I abandoned you? After I decided to take care only of myself? Roger thankfully didn't force me to complete my sentence, and took up the cue.

"We threw a few punches, the guys let off some steam, and I got out of there," he said, a little too calmly. "It was all fine."

"Then why aren't you with them now? If everything's fine?" I countered.

"I didn't say everything _is _fine, I said everything _was _fine, and I certainly didn't say that everything is _going to be_ fine," he said cryptically. Besides changing verb tenses three times in one sentence, I wasn't exactly sure what he meant.

"What?" was my eloquent response.

"I got away last night because I'm the fastest, but look at those guys," he paused to indicate to his friends who were now wolf whistling at some girls in short skirts. "I'm not the strongest and I'm certainly not the biggest. I got away last night, but not without a promise that I'd get the shit kicked out of me today. They're going to catch up with me on the way to the bus."

It was the first of many times I would admire Roger's bravery while marveling at his idiocy. Anyone with a bit more brain and a bit less guts would have stayed at home, or called the school, or hired a professional bodyguard. Anyone else would have done something to avoid getting beat up by the toughest kids in school. Roger seemed only mildly concerned.

"Well what are you going to do?" I begged.

"Run away if I can. Or just take it." He said dully, as if he had already resigned himself to his fate.

"Just take it? Roger, they'll destroy you!" I pleaded, and a glance at his eyes showed me that they had hardened and aged from the usual mischievous, blue orbs.

"I have a high pain threshold and I know how to take a hit," he said simply, as if that was all he needed, but Roger's gang was the type that got in trouble for pulling knives in school. Some of the boys had broken a kid's arm a few years back. A "high pain threshold" wasn't a useful defense against those boys, and Roger and I both knew it.

"Well we have to do something!" I insisted. I wasn't going to be reading Roger's obituary in tomorrow's paper.

"We?" He demanded. "There is no we, Mark. I got you out of trouble last night, that's it. You don't owe me shit, and I don't owe you shit either, so don't expect any more goddamn rescue missions."

From the time we were kids Roger had spoken like this. Every curse word I had learned, excluding those I knew in Yiddish, came from him. When Roger throws down three bad words in a sentence, he means business. It's something you learn as best friends. Or ex-best friends I suppose. Those days were over. Roger made it clear that all he'd done was get me out of a jam and we weren't going back to how we were before. No more of those days when we'd call each other's names in roll call, lie next to each other in nap time, and have my mom take us home at the end of the day.

It was at this point in my stream of thought that my mouth literally dropped open.

"My mom!" I shouted.

"No, Mark, the joke begins 'your mom'" Roger deadpanned.

"No, Roger, shut up and listen." He glared at me, but obeyed. "My mom's picking me up from school today. She can take you too and you won't have to go to the bus lot and you'll be fine!" In that brief moment, it seemed like a Nobel-worthy idea.

"What about tomorrow, Mark? Or the next day? Or Monday? They're gonna catch up with me eventually," Roger told me. It was a valid point.

"What do they say? 'Take it one day at a time' right?" I offered. "Just for today, you'll be okay. That matters, right? Doesn't that count for something?" I could hear the desperation creeping into my voice.

"Yeah, Mark, that counts for something," Roger sighed. I felt like he was just humoring me, but it didn't matter. Keeping him safe for one more day was all I cared about. "Meet back here then?"

I resisted the urge to say please.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's do that," I answered, relieved. "Meet me here, my mom will pick us up, it'll be okay." The bell rang with a sharp whistle and the mass of students began to ooze into the hallways. Roger gave me a short nod and headed to his first class. I took my own path to first period, a strange mixture of anxiety, excitement, and happiness brewing in my middle.


End file.
